Five Years and Ten Months
by Fixomnia Scribble
Summary: In the months before his marriage, Jamie realizes he has some major baggage to sort out and let go. CW: Discussions of PTSD, major character deaths, violence. And of course, fluff n' smut. Later.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: We pick up after the events of Five Years and Ten Days and Ten Days More, in which Jamie and Eddie began to navigate engaged life. This piece takes us from a few months before the wedding until just afterwards._

_This is also in answer to a series of thought-provoking prompts for Jamie to address his PTSD in a substantive way. I should warn you, I've been missing the gritty cop reality and angst that I used to write a lot, and there will be memories of death and traumas and people reacting badly. _

_Of course there will be smut n' fluff, because they are important too. And awfully fun._

_As we are now in Hiatus Standard Time, the wedding will take place some time in summer, but it will be mid-October directly afterwards as Season 10 starts._

_And A/N #2: for the rest of the summer I will be working on this story and Detour Ahead, and no others! One close-canon and one canon-divergent story is plenty!_

* * *

Sunday, April 28, 2019  
St. Patrick's Church

"Hey, Geoff," Jamie says, as Father Markhum looks up from his coffee and beckons them into the small study.

"Morning, Father," Eddie says, still carefully formal.

The sun is high and bright after the early 8:15 Mass, piercing the three tall, narrow Norman windows and picking out the details of age: the small bronze knobs on the bevelled glass panel doors of the original 1852 built-in bookcases, the marble-based pen rack and ink bottle on the thick oak desk.

Markhum keeps a couple of Cross fountain pens in the rack and signs his letters with them, though it's as much because he's one of those _pen people_ as because he likes the tradition, Jamie thinks. His father is, too, though he's capitulated to Baker's silent warfare against fountain pens in the office since the incident with the cartridge in 2006.

The study was designed to be a retreat from the busy life of the world outside the windows, a place where a priest may invite the individual to an encounter with the holiness inherent within, rather than reminding an entire congregation of the Divine all around.

_I'm badly in need of that today_, Jamie thinks, and takes a slow inhale of old dust and incense and Eddie's light shampoo.

Jamie remembers when this was Father Llewellyn's study, and Father Rossi's before that. He spent hours here as a child and as a teenager, often poring over the few old texts stored here, and pretending to understand. Father Rossi in particular encouraged visits from his teenaged self, after Confirmation classes were over, patiently explaining the Latin and Greek roots of modern interpretations of church philosophy. Rossi understood that the youngest Reagan needed solid answers, not exhortations to keep the faith when the faith seemed contrary to experience.

Jamie credits Rossi with a great deal of the ease with which he began his law studies, preparing him for a career of seeking proofs for the basis of his beliefs, even though he knows Rossi would have preferred he become a priest himself. He's as comfortable in this study as he's been anywhere, and finds himself refreshed and revitalized after a visit. Especially in recent years, when he and Geoff Markhum get to unwind over a glass of good scotch on a Wednesday night, after shift and after Confession.

For Eddie, though, this is still a new and strange space, full of arcane sights and smells, and a literal and metaphorical wall of Catholic doctrine that is, at times, at serious odds with a great deal of what she believes and fights for every day. She's fascinated, but also often frustrated, especially when tenets of the faith are in complete conflict with evidence-backed science and the progressive society that she – and Jamie – also believes in.

Sometimes he can only nod and laugh. "We're _human_," he reminds her. "And we're cops. We're not saints out there in uniform. We couldn't be cops if we were. And the Canon isn't the Patrol Code - or the Criminal Code. We have to make those tough choices between the ideal and real life every day on the street, right? So no, it doesn't feel like cherry-picking to me. It's about what's applicable to the situation at hand."

She knows that pre-marriage counselling and discussions with married couples are requirements of a Catholic church wedding, and she's happy to participate. They are, after all, full of sound and tested advice for a long and healthy marriage, and it's a chance to dig deep into big questions they might not otherwise take the time for. But for her, it's an emotional workout, without the sense of rest and respite.

"You'd think it'd be easy for me to talk to you about anything, after all this time," she'd excused herself, after emerging in a tearful, confused daze from their first session, "But picking apart everything I believe about families, and why – and trying to explain the most important things about my life to a total stranger, however nice a person they are…I'm not used to this."

"I know," he'd assured her, with a squeeze of her hand as they left. "It's different when you've grown up talking about all this stuff with a family of investigators that doesn't believe in privacy rights."

But she'd spent hours doggedly working through the homework questions that Markhum had set them, and had waded knee-deep into the online courses he'd recommended, too. And she'd come back to the second counselling session with her homework and a lot of questions, and he'd loved her all the more. It was for him, for them, that she was putting in this effort.

He thinks often of what effort he might make on her behalf, to carry his part of this thing between them. He's ashamed to admit how often he stalls out. He can try to support her career with the insights he's gathered over a lifetime of being raised by cops. He can try to give her family stability and a chance to put down her roots without fear of anyone leaving her. But it feels like he's over-Reaganning her when he does.

Which is why he's still chewing himself out over the thing with Witten and the softball team. The light just faded in her eyes in a way that's stayed with him far longer than her anger.

He should have told her the truth about Joe a long, long time ago. That task shouldn't have fallen to Danny.

He should really have explained that he trusts _her_ judgement, but he doesn't trust _other_ officers not to try to get near her, or trash-talk her just like they do all the brass, including all the Reagans and Reagan cousins in the NYPD, too. That kind of talk can linger and have a corrosive effect, even if there's nothing at the heart of it. And he knows more than a few senior detectives who would be genuinely interested in her career ambitions while finding her new family connections tempting, too.

He should have explained that he honestly didn't realize what an intense, immediate reaction he'd have to the very idea of her joining a fraternal organization. He didn't realize how close to the surface his own thoughts and feelings were.

She knows all of this, of course. He _knows_ she knows. But because he's a damn good lawyer, and more to the point, because he's the youngest of a pack of nimble-tongued Irish, he had a list of defenses at the ready.

_Witten's a trouble-magnet._

_They're all fronts for agendas._

_We only join the ancient organizations._

He winces anew at the memory of that little _bon mot._

Well, at least he was there with Sean at her first softball game yesterday, both of them cheering on the recently assembled NYPD Cuffs to a 4-2 win against the Department of Corrections Lady Larks.

Over brunch, before the game, he'd given her a tiny star in white gold on a fine chain necklace.

"For luck," he told her, fastening it for her. "I'm not trying to token my way out of trouble. I'm sorry I was such a jerk and I hope you kick ass out there, and those are two separate things."

She'd turned, her eyes alight, and she'd kissed him so sweet and soft that he felt unworthy of her. Later, he'd watched her jog out onto the field with her new teammates, in her blue uniform jersey with her own name in golden-yellow lettering across the back, and he felt like he was back in high school watching the cute girl with the bouncy blonde ponytail under her helmet, barely believing she'd just smiled at him.

It had been so good to see her throwing her whole self into something just for her. And it was more than a good day out. He'd missed that feeling of playing hard as part of a team, instead of his solitary boxing and running regimen. They'd trooped off the field, both teams sweaty and muddy and laughing, and headed out for beers together after cleaning up.

It was a different sensation, being introduced in the pub as "Janko's boyfriend Reagan."

Watching Eddie and her teammates and new friends had made him drag old fears and old memories into the light. There's a truth to those fears, yes, but they've also slowly formed iron bars around a vital part of him that he misses. With her help, he thinks, he might regain it. Learn to trust again, instead of seeing danger behind every overture from any cop he doesn't know personally.

He's never truly dealt with the fact people have tried to kill him. Not the first time, when it was fellow cops, and not the most recent time, either, when only Eddie's instincts and her fierce and furious love for him, stripped down to the bone after being shot herself, saved his life.

His reaction, when Joe's car was sabotaged with him inside, was to blame his father and Joe and the entire FBI and NYPD and God and himself. His reaction to nearly dying at point blank gunshot range was to ask Eddie to marry him, as soon as legally possible.

The more he tugs on that thread, the more of the tangle comes into view. It's all jumbled with the other deaths and near-deaths he's witnessed and been too close to. He's got them hopelessly confused with survivor guilt, duty, family love, and having to depersonalize the people he's taken down himself on the job. Staying on the shop floor was as much about staying under the radar and not making himself more of a target, as much as anything. Knowing his environment so intimately that he could detect the slightest shift in the atmosphere, and be on guard, with Eddie, his extra sidearm, beside him.

Eddie understood his mind before he did, he thinks with a small jolt. She knew it the moment Danny explained how Joe died. She instantly perceived the danger he faced back then, and intuited what it meant that he'd never spoken of it, in all their years together. She put it all together – his mother and grandmother's deaths, Joe, Vinny, Gina, Linda, and the too-close calls they had both had last year.

She hadn't said anything, not until she was sure that Danny had spoken to him –

(_oh, and had Danny ever spoken to him: "Why the hell do you think our old man wanted us both to face down Malevsky with him beside us? For revenge? No, man. He needed us to see it was over with our own eyes. Better to deal with seeing brains on the wall once than be looking over your shoulder forever. I still cried on Linda for a week after that. I was that terrified of losing you, too. And if you think you're on some higher plane than that, kid, I got news for you.")_

– but she'd clearly forgiven him very quickly and was concerned enough that he saw it in her eyes.

She's been very patient since then, waiting for him to figure it out. He remembers how many times she's been a target herself, for being his partner, for being a woman, and how she reached out to him for help when she needed it. She's tougher than he is in many ways. She's so familiar with being a target that she was able to step into that mode and _use it_ when a case called for it, trusting her team to have her back, and he was the one who went overboard and freaked out about it.

_But I'm fine, Danny's the one with PTSD. Two tours in the hell of the Iraq theatre with shitty ground support, bad leadership and bombed-out civilians. Who wouldn't be traumatized? But me? I'm here at home with everything I need. I don't have any of the symptoms of PTSD because I have no reason to…I didn't die, and everyone who did knew the risks of what they were doing…_

_Oh, that's not true._

_I just don't show any of the symptoms of PTSD, because I know what they are and I think I'm too smart for that._

"You're looking well," Markhum says to Eddie. He scoots his chair to one side of his desk, to avoid giving the impression of a boss. Eddie still has to remind herself she doesn't have to stand at attention until she's invited to sit.

"Thank you," she smiles, and slides into one of the comfy old green guest chairs. "It's been a good week."

She gives Jamie one of her old radiant smiles as he sits in the matching chair beside her. He drinks in the fathomless love in her blue eyes and the glow of her hair in the sunlight and the winking star at her throat and the triumphant long scrape down her arm from sliding into home base, and for a moment he wants to put his head in her lap and weep for no specific reason other than that he trusts her with every particle of himself and he's out of denials.

"It _has_ been a good week," he agrees, smoothing his tie to stop himself from fidgeting with it, "but as I'm sitting here now, I have to admit that the week before wasn't so good. And I'm starting to realize how deep a lot of it went. Is it okay – " he turns to Eddie, "Could we get into the stuff about the softball team a bit today, instead of whatever's on the program? And about Joe," he adds. "Because knowing you know about it isn't enough. I don't want to be dragging all that into our marriage, and I – I need some help with it."

"That's why we're here," she responds quietly. It takes Jamie a moment to realize what she means, and he looks at her again. She's holding out her hand, if he wants to take it.

He does.

"I know I don't have to worry _about_ you," she says carefully, "But I do worry _for_ you. I think you've been carrying so much for so long it's just become normal, until something happens to put you off balance. So if you hadn't brought it up, I was going to, soon. Either here or through work, and with or without me there. Whichever works best for you."

"Oh."

She smiles. "You can't scare me off, Reagan. Deal with it."

Markhum nods to the coffee thermos on the desk.

"You might need some of that. Help yourselves. Let's get started."


	2. Chapter 2

He feels exposed and fidgety, sitting with the bright morning light full on his face, under the gentle concern of his priest and his partner. He's brought his griefs and failings to Markhum before, and God knows he and Eddie have hauled each other through hell and back, but this is different. He's looking at a long process of emotional archaeology, and probably formal documentation.

Which, he admits, is a sting on the ass of his ego. His mind was supposed to be his greatest asset. His _gift_, he thinks, a little bitterly. It wasn't supposed to let him down. He's happy to support anyone else in going through whatever they're going through, but he's supposed to bulletproof. The youngest kid with an IQ of Scary and the advantage of learning from everyone else's experiences. Right?

He's far more careful than he needs to be, pouring his coffee into one of the church's incongruously neon-blazed 1980's cafeteria mugs from Markhum's coffee butler. He sits back with one hand wrapped around his mug, unsure where to focus. Eddie's hand finds his empty one, across the upholstered flowery arms of the old visitor chairs, steadfast and warm. _In for the long haul_, her eyes remind him seriously.

Eddie's his champion in this, but he doesn't know if she's aware how much sharing her own history has nudged him towards taking this step. She's worked through years of counselling and therapy homework, between dealing with her narcissistic, controlling mother, her con-man father, and only learning that she had a brother ten years younger – a sideslip of her father's by one of his many paramours – upon his death at seven years old from leukemia. She knows _the long haul_ is going to be stormy for a while.

She's been worried for him for a long time, in between being rightfully pissed at him and dealing with the shifting tapestry of her own identity and future. She gets that he's a Sergeant now, responsible for the well-being of his officers, including her. She gets that he's hard-wired for playing a careful game as much as a pokerfaced one, even when it drives her nuts, and even when she makes the better call.

_Can you live with that?_

_If I have to…_

Eddie apparently did her own math and decided he was worth the aggravation. He can only pray she doesn't change her mind.

He wonders now if she had an ulterior motive for insisting on following him to the 29, beyond the stubborn refusal to let their army of two be split up, and beyond wanting to help him turn around a tough precinct that didn't want cleaning up. Maybe it was really him she wanted to keep an eye on? It hadn't occurred to him to ask. He was supposed to be watching over _her_. At first he just liked having her there every day, like always, and then he jumped straight into worrying hard, when it looked like she was being taken under wing by detectives with less interest in keeping her safe than in making their cases. God knows, the harder he tries to keep her out of harms' way, the more it tends to end up with him failing hard at protecting her, or with a furious Eddie feeling like he doesn't trust her when he does.

But he's not sure what else he can do. It's not just his lawyer brain working out the odds. It's not just his father's request that they keep it low-key, if they insist on working together. It's as if, by pretending she's not the center of his entire universe, God will pass her by when it comes time for him to pay. He's been playing that little game through their entire partnership, but now she's part of him, part of every breath, and he can't fool himself or God about it anymore.

He lifts his mug and takes a swallow, stalling, and the coffee hits his stomach with an acid lurch. It's not the coffee, it's him. The churning guilt is creeping back, not relegated to the long dark watches of the night anymore but invading his days, cramping his guts and sending flight twitches through his arms and legs. It's not just family survivor guilt. Who is he to suffer post-traumatic anything, he who never came back from a tour of duty ridden by demons with the faces of dead teenaged troopmates, like Danny - or from the horrors of Korea or Vietnam, like Grandpa and Dad? Who is he to ask for help, when all he's done is go home to a comfortable bed?

Never mind the people he's saved along the way. The ones in his head are the ones he couldn't. He understands why some Silver Stars feel worse for being hailed as heroes. Danny's never spoken of his, not once, since he received it.

"I'm not a police and military counsellor," Markhum finally speaks into the quiet, seeing Jamie has no earthly idea how to begin. "But I am a licensed clinical counsellor as well as a priest, as you know, and I am always at your service. For today, let's just talk generally. Start with the first thing you think of, and just keep going."

Jamie nods, grateful, and takes a breath. Eddie's fingers close around his.

"We have this mental wellness program in the force," he says. "It's called POPPA. I know. The jokes write themselves. But it's a pretty decent initiative. Police Organization Providing Peer Assistance. It started before 9/11, but it really took off after that. It's pitched as a way to reduce cop suicides, drug and alcohol abuse, domestic violence, all that. They do peer support, and referrals to whatever kinds of counselling you need. Of course they cover things like cop stress and resilience at the Academy, but nothing can really prepare you for the things that you're gonna see. So POPPA runs courses to take once you're in the field, like suicide awareness, dealing with cumulative stress. They've helped a lot of cops. After Joe died, they reached out to Danny and Dad. I don't know if they followed up. I'm betting not, but they did mention they appreciated it. I think they preferred to lean on the Church instead. Plus, the whole cop-mentality thing and the optics of Reagans seeking treatment was..._is_…that's a whole other hurdle."

"I've heard of the program. Some of my brothers are police chaplains, so that's one of their top referrals."

"Oh, of course, yeah. My old TO gave me a shove in that direction, after my partner Vinny was killed. I did an online course on building resilience and another on dealing with chronic stress and acute trauma. We went over typical reactions, what signs to watch out for in other cops, where to get help for specific things. Which I didn't think I needed, not then. You remember I talked to you about Vinny at the time. I got through it okay. And Eddie helped, though she couldn't have known how much."

He's prevaricating. What he nearly said was, _and that's where I learned exactly what trouble signs my superiors would be looking for, and I made sure not to show any. After Vinny, after Linda. After Gina. Enough grief to seem normal, but nothing to raise any eyebrows. Everyone figured I'd grown up in a cop family, after all._

Markhum nods, thoughtful. Jamie wonders if he's fooled.

Eddie wiggles her fingers. "All I knew was you'd lost your partner," she says softly. "Nobody told me it was only two weeks earlier, not for about a month. And for sure nobody mentioned Joe, not for a long time. I guess they didn't want me spooked, but I wish I'd known."

"And I figured Renzulli must've told you, and you didn't want to bring it up. I was your TO, I didn't want you to feel like you had to take Vinny's place or have to think twice about leaning on me if you needed. So training you up was really great timing."

"Oh, I know."

_Boy Scout._

_Princess._

They share a smile and a breath, for a moment. He turns back to Markhum, who looks amused.

"So then, when I got my Sergeant's stripes last year, part of my upgrade was a whole package of supervisory training, including more POPPA courses. One of them was about monitoring the mental health of your team. They talked about anniversary reactions. God knows we go in for annual ceremonies and memorials in a big way. They talked about why we do so many of them, as a way of channeling everyone's reactions, reducing isolation. I'd heard about it, as a psychological effect, but I guess I didn't realize how real it is. Not just flashing back on events the same date they happened, but having physical stress reactions without linking them to the original event, at least not consciously."

Eddie's hand tightens slightly.

"I guess I've always figured my mind's pretty clear to me, and if I ever had more to deal with than I could handle, I'd know about it. And I think I've _been_ handling everything, but that's about it. Handling it. Not dealing with it. See, four days from now makes it exactly ten years since my brother Joe was killed. And I didn't even put it together with the headaches I've been having, and not being able to sleep, and not – " he glances over to Eddie, who gives him a wry shrug and an eyebrow, " – anyway. Being more paranoid than usual, trying to keep everyone safe. And blowing up at Eddie and Danny and Erin and just everyone, for no reason at all. Not even for stupid reasons. Then last Sunday at dinner, we were talking about Joe's Requiem Mass coming up, that the Bishop's saying for us. I guess that's when it hit me that Joe can't really be my big brother anymore. I'm older than he was when he died, and I'm six months past him in service time. I outrank him as a Sergeant, now, and I always will. I - "

He swallows suddenly, hard.

"Thing is, Joe and I were always super close. We all fought a lot, growing up, but Joe and I had each other's backs. He was the one I turned to when I was a kid, and he was my best friend when we got older. So when Danny started saying how much he missed him, last Sunday, and wondering what he'd be doing now, I just…I was already feeling lousy, but I got irate. Zero to sixty in two seconds. I nearly had to take myself outside. It took me right back to when Joe died. See, back then, I couldn't say much about Joe in front of Danny, 'cause he'd say something about me and Joe always caring too much about things, and look where it got us. Danny was in a bad way back then, few years after he got home from Fallujah. Lot of bad shit happened over there. I _know_ that. And yeah, we've talked about it since. We both get it. Really. But hearing him get all emotional about Joe_ now_, when he had to fuckin' cut me down for it back then - "

He breaks off. He thought it would take ages to pick apart the layers and reach the festering sore, but apparently it's right under the surface. The shakes have taken hold in his legs by now. He doesn't remember the last time his voice took off on a tangent like this, sliding up and down the register like it's breaking all over again.

It's hardly the first time Markhum's heard him curse, and the priest can use some unholy language himself when times call and the scotch is medicine, but Eddie's visibly surprised.

"Sorry. I'm sorry, I – "

"_Please_ don't be sorry," Markhum and Eddie say, in nearly the same tones. Markhum continues: "It's a good observation, linking the anniversary reaction to Joe's passing, and the way it calls up other memories of grief and passing-away."

"He was supposed to be my big brother always," Jamie says. His voice is still doing that thing, and he sounds about ten years old now, to his own ears. "People used to say, oh, he'll stay young forever, like that's a good thing. I know they meant it as a comfort. But I had two big brothers, and he was the one I could talk to. No, that's not – he was the one I could talk to about things I was _feeling_. He never laughed at me. Not to be mean. Oh, man – " he lets out a harsh laugh and leans forward to pluck a Kleenex from the box on Markhum's desk. He presses it against his eyes for moment. "Sorry. I just – I _know_ Danny's going through his side of it all, too, and he just talked to Eddie about Joe a while back. That must have ripped it all open for him, too, and he doesn't have Linda here this time. Gotta be harder on him than me. Back then, he didn't know – none of us knew about some of the circumstances of Joe's death, or he might have had a better place to dump his anger. And Dad – Dad's never stopped blaming himself for Joe. Not with the way it went down. Me, I just…I just miss him."

He feels Eddie's eyes flick to Markhum's. The priest nods, as if he was expecting this. Perhaps he was. He leans forward in restrained earnestness, bracing his elbows on his knees.

"Jamie, there's no scale of validity in grief. Yours is as important as the rest of your family's. It's time to stop using other people's circumstances to put off facing your own reactions. "Blessed are they who mourn" implies there's _work_ involved in mourning, before you can receive and accept comfort. It's too easy to use the oblivion of overwork as a mask for the true self-emptying of penance. You're not going to be on duty during Joe's Requiem Mass. That might be harder than you think. There won't be anything to do. You'll simply be there with your family, and we'll be there holding you all in our hearts, so you can _feel whatever you feel_. You may find you're farther ahead than you want to admit, or you may find you need to go back and start over."

"That'll be a job in itself," he replies.

"You're probably right."

The ache in his stomach is less than it was.

"Well," he says, "Anyway, that's the nutshell version. That's the week it's been. Remembering Joe, remembering all the other deaths in the family. And on the job. I've never really stopped thinking about them, but it's worse than it used to be. It'll be Linda's second Requiem Mass in a couple of months, too."

"Yes," Markhum replies, "I'll be saying that one for your family. I know I'm not the Monsignor, but I'll do my best."

Jamie looks over at Eddie again. She's still in her quiet mode, listening and absorbing, and he wonders what she's thinking. What she's feeling. Is it fair to drag her through all of this with him, when most of it involves people she never even knew?

"They're all part of you," she says, forestalling him, "I want to know them, too. Joe's my brother-in-law, even if I never got to meet him. I'm just grateful I got to know Linda, a little bit."

Sometimes it drives him crazy, the way she reads him. Sometimes it makes him fall in love with her all over again. This time he realizes that it only drives him crazy because of how much it scares him. It's scary to think that someone else might have the keys to his mind, his safe place – and terrifying to think that he has to learn to trust that she won't walk away, once she's seen what's there.

But then, it's entirely possible she's felt the same way about him. He's never asked her that, not in words. They both have plenty of family skeletons and personal demons.

Looks like it's time he did ask. But later, at home. That's a conversation to have in private and wrapped around each other. Preferably skin to skin, and hopefully sometime very soon he might manage –

He clears his throat. "What – what was on the program today?"

Markhum consults a paperclipped stack on his desk. "Session five: family financial planning and discussing how each of you deals with financial stress.

"Spreadsheets," Eddie interjects. "You should see this one's spreadsheets, Father. And long, detailed e-mails from a Harvard buddy who's an investment banker, if you please."

"One, five and ten year forecasts, and long term investment plans," Jamie adds, tapping his phone in the breast pocket of his blazer. "With both of our wish lists, have-tos and want-tos flagged. Want to see?"

"The end result of one of our longer fights, but a good one," Eddie admits. "A shared Google Sheet."

"Maybe we can skip the technicalities and just talk about the _stressful_ part," Markhum temporizes, raising a hand. "And of course, if you wish, we can keep meeting on a regular basis, after the Marriage Preparation sessions. I think you're at the beginning of a fascinating new adventure, Jamie, and not just in your marriage."

"You've always been a blessings-half-full sort of priest," Jamie says. Markhum lets out one of his rare laughs then, rich and surprisingly musical.

"You know that's not true. I struggle along like everyone else. Remember, "blesser" in French means to hit, or to strike," he says. "There's a lot of truth in that, I find. Sometimes the greatest blessings do land with the heaviest force."

Jamie thinks hard about that, as he and Eddie walk to his car a few minutes later. They're both quiet, but unlike the past few days (_months_, he self-castigates a little) it feels like a shared quietude.

Eddie loops her arm around his waist, their strides coming to match his despite the difference in height. Drill training goes deep. "What d'you feel like?" she asks. "Do you want to be alone for a while before we head over for dinner, or – "

He pulls her in closer to his side. "No," he tells her, "I definitely do not feel like being alone, or leaving _you_ alone. I've been doing way too much of that. I'm just – I'm used to working through things in my own time, in own head. I don't think I'm ever going to get used not doing that. And I'm sure as hell not used to my head not behaving the way I want it to."

"It's all right. We're complex adults. We all need downtime."

"But not as an excuse for not talking about stuff just because it's going to be hard."

"No," she agrees. She looks up. "This is good. I don't mean you getting to the point you need help sorting it out. I mean talking about it. Because I mean it, Reagan, you can't push me away. But it's only fair to let me know what I'm in for. Do you have any idea how good it feels to know _how_ to help someone like you? And for you to let me? I meant every word about being your medic and your chaplain, whenever and however you need me to be, but it's a two way street."

He pulls a grimace. "Some boyfriends are really clueless. You help me so much, every day."

"Some boyfriends need to realize they're human and we love them _because of it_."

"Some girlfriends are overdue for some visible evidence of appreciation."

"Well, that's true."

The tone of her voice implies she means it.

"Suggestions?"

"Oh, I have suggestions." She looks up and grins. "You really think I should tell you on the way to dinner?"

"Save it for the drive home," he murmurs, and plants a kiss on her crown. "But speaking of family, I - I think I need to keep this latest development quiet for now. Just for a while. It's not like they won't sniff out something's up, but I want to know more about what I'm in for, too. I'll talk to them after Joe's Mass. Once I've talked to the EAP counsellor and POPPA. It's going to mean getting the family involved in some way, not just me, and I don't know how ready they'll be."

"People can surprise you, if you let them," Eddie replies.

"I admire your faith."

"I admire yours. And I like your Father Markhum."

"I'm glad."

"But I'm still not sure I'll ever convert, you know."

"Absolutely nobody's saying you need to." They've reached the parking lot behind the church, and he opens the passenger door of the Mustang for her. "Or even that you should. You know that, right?"

"Here I come, smashing your traditions," Eddie intones, settling herself into her seat. As he comes around to the driver's side, she continues, "You gonna be okay dealing with Danny later? After letting all that out?"

"Yeah. I – yeah, better than before, I think. I was thinking he should be the next one I talk to in the family. Maybe tonight, maybe after Joe's Mass, I'll play it by ear. I think we might be able to help each other, but it's gotta be the right time, and we'll each need to do it our own way."

"Well, you let me know if you want me there, or guarding the kitchen door."

He smiles at the mental image, and puts the car in gear. "You would, too. Prevent the Commissioner from entering his own kitchen just so Danny and I could sort out our shit."

"In a heartbeat."

"I kinda want to see that."

"Well, then I guess you better try talking to your brother tonight."

"Guess I better."

He slides out of the lot and eases them into the traffic towards his father's house.


	3. Chapter 3

"Awful quiet," Danny observes, during the more dignified rituals of second helpings. There are fewer sharp elbows and hovering forks over the serving dishes this time around, and there is time for deep breaths and conversation.

Jamie has barely touched his firsts. He looks up quickly, hoping for a moment that it's someone else in Danny's sights. With Jack not expected back for a month, and Pop upstairs sleeping off cold tablets, it's a quieter table in general.

No such luck. Danny's got them in his headlights, he and Eddie. Jamie's been immersed in his own thoughts more deeply than usual, and Eddie has been watchful since they arrived, waiting to support his lead.

His father looks somewhat apologetic: he'd noticed them, too, but he'd been trying to draw off the heat by keeping Nicky on her toes about her post-graduation plans as the bleeding-heart liberal of the family, while she waits for her NYPD application to move through the system. And Erin, though she's sitting right beside Eddie, has naturally been defending her daughter and then joining in the prodding.

"Are we?" Jamie replies neutrally.

Danny gives the mashed potato spoon a solid tap on his plate, and his eyes narrow. "What gives? C'mon. If either of you was in trouble, we'd already know."

Jamie pushes a bit of spinach around on his plate and puts down his fork, carefully enough that Danny can't mistake it for temper and flare up back at him. Under the table, Eddie's hand comes to rest on his thigh.

He's grateful for the reminder that he's not going in alone, but it's hard not to feel that he's failed in himself somehow. No matter what his brain tells him about the stark reality of delayed reactions, and that they are perfectly understandable, even predictable.

_I don't want to be understandable. I want to be better_, he thinks, petulantly

They've pulled Danny through his rages, silences, fugue states, benders and occasional disappearances. They've carried Erin through a college sex assault, a nasty, drawn-out divorce and having her own colleague die in her arms. Nothing Jamie is going to ask the family's help with will break them, or their trust in him. The kids deserve to see how grown ups in this line of work can healthily process their shit. He _knows_ all of this.

He ungrits his teeth and looks directly at his brother. "Maybe gimme a hand with the dishes after dinner?" he asks.

Nonplussed, Danny nods once. It's uncharted territory for Jamie to tacitly admit that something is amiss.

A few shared glances and shrugs pass like a wave around the table. But the conversation quickly picks up like the rising sea swirling into a tidepool, turning with renewed interest to his father's recent lunch date - "It was a _catch-up meeting over lunch_." - with Kelly Peterson.

Jamie's not fooled, but he's grateful for the save, and joins in heckling Dad with everyone else.

* * *

They're left alone in seconds, after everyone's finished bringing in the dishes. Despite this, Jamie figures they have about twenty minutes before people begin to make noises about coffee and dessert. He wonders if Eddie's really hovering outside the door, and smiles to himself. He has a feeling she's not far away.

Danny, with extreme restraint, tucks up his sleeves and lets Jamie choose his moment, while every dish is scraped and neatly stacked. He just gets on with the work as if they happened to end up in the kitchen at the same time. Despite this, Jamie can feel the wheels in his brother's head spinning into the bad-news zone, and he appreciates how weird this is for both of them.

He takes a breath.

"So you know Eddie and I've been going to see Father Markhum for marriage prep sessions," he begins. The look on Danny's face is priceless. And then concerned, and a little relieved.

"Yeeeah," he says. "I remember those. Lotta stuff comes out."

"It's funny how you don't think you need to think about something until you need to completely re-evaluate it, huh."

Danny makes a sound of agreement and bends down to unlatch the dishwasher. Clearly he thinks Jamie has a married-man question. Which it sort of is, Jamie thinks. He's half of the Jamie-Eddie unit, and he's carrying around a lot of other people on his end. He doesn't want Eddie to have to carry all of them along with him, too.

"Can I ask you something pretty major? And you don't have to answer at all, really. It's just, I hit a big rock with my shovel, and think it's one you're familiar with."

"Okay?"

"This family, we've all lost more people than we should. Or maybe it's just small-minded to think that way, I mean, how do we know who should live or not? That's not down to us."

"Jamie." Danny makes a _stay focussed_ gesture to his eyes with one hand, as he fills the top rack with precise rows of water glasses with the other.

"Right." He puts the plug in the larger of the two sinks. Over the sound of hot water rushing, he goes on: "You've had a lot more people you know pass away than I ever did. Family and friends and troops."

"You've seen more than your fair share by now. And you dealt with it a hell of a lot better than I ever did."

"That's just it. I haven't been. I'm good at _shelving_. Compartmentalizing." He slides a couple of encrusted serving platters under the suds to soak, and wishes all his accumulated grime was so easily dealt with.

"Just sucking it up, you mean?"

"Well, yeah. There's always another crisis, always someone hit harder than me. But there's a big difference between putting something in perspective, and using the next important thing to avoid dealing with it."

"Huh." Danny stands and spins the dishwasher knob till it starts up, and turns to lean against the counter, arms folded. "I kinda always figured that about you, but I'm the last person to be advising anyone about how they deal."

"Not sure that's true. You've gotten _help_ dealing. I think that's what I'm looking at, to be honest. And it's about the hardest thing I can think of doing. I'm supposed to be the guy other people ask. I don't know if I would if it wasn't for Eddie."

He can feel Danny eyeing him carefully now. "I get that. Really, I do. Don't forget I didn't start seeing Dawson till I was ordered to. Because I wasn't a safe person to be around, and I didn't have Linda. She's always been...she was my rock. And she was relentless on my ass, till I went to VA meetings, after I came home from Iraq the second time. Then after she - after Linda, I didn't ask for help, or even accept it, till things went seriously sideways and other people were getting hurt. My _kids _were being affected. So if you can skip over that part, more power to you. You were always way smarter than me."

"That's part of the problem. It's easy to tell people what they need to hear, just to get them off your back."

_And how,_ he thinks. He's been doing that all his life.

"Father Markhum's a smart guy, too. I bet he's pretty good at catching that."

"He is. I trust him."

"I'm glad. That's a better place to start than being dragged kicking and screaming into groups you just end up being the scary angry guy in, and doing one-on-ones on threat of losing your guns." Danny clears his throat, remembering it's not his turn now, and starts on the cutlery. "Lucky for me Dawson is an even bigger pain in the neck than my wife. So. What's been eatin' at you?"

"I think the real difference falls between Mom and Grandma dying, and then everyone else," Jamie says straight up, thinking out loud. "Cancer's a bitch, but we know there's nothing we could have done. Maybe we're lucky in that respect. We _know _how many tests and treatment options we looked into, and we don't have that nagging feeling we might have done more."

"That how you feel now, or how you felt then?"

Jamie thinks about this. "Now. You're right. At the time I was looking up every fringe treatment I could find. There had to be something we missed, that the doctors all missed. It was Grandma who convinced me to stop. Just enjoy the time we had left. That's the other big difference. Knowing it was coming."

"Yeah. Grandma said the same to me. In fact - don't forget she was Army through and through, she was a Marine wife and Marine mom, and a soldier's daughter - she had to remind me it was a blessing, having those few months together to prepare. Linda said so too, more than once. She's helped so many families through it."

Jamie nods, slowly. "We had, what was it, almost two years with Grandma, and then six months with Mom, not even a year later. Like God was trying to make it personal. At least with Mom, we knew what to expect."

"Yeah, but it didn't mean it was any easier, just maybe less...panicky? Less having to learn on the fly, more energy to be fuckin' pissed off about it."

"Yup. But we had that time with her. So I just kept telling myself, it's nothing like what you, and Dad and Grandpa had to see on active duty. It's nothing like what you all dealt with on the job. So what right did I have…"

He's surprised by the hard choke in his throat. His eyes are already wet. This is the second time today this has happened to him. Being emotionally available, if that's what this is, is...rough.

"So what right did you have to grieve them, you mean?" Danny finishes. His voice is matter-of-fact, not soft, and Jamie's grateful. Kindness would crumble him.

He nods. "We lost out on time with them, but they had about the most peaceful death anyone could hope for, at the end," he says, trying to mask a snuffle. "Both of them, no pain, and Dad and Pop holding their hands on the way out. Smiling and talking to them about old times."

"But you know that was for their wives' benefit. Dad and Pop don't show when they're really going through it inside. 'Specially Dad."

"Mom was angry enough for her and Dad both," Jamie recalls.

"Well, and with good reason. Erin and me, and my number two kid, we're like her, we yell it all out. We didn't get the stoic gene. Went around me, went straight to Jack. Like you and Joe."

They're not even pretending to be doing the dishes anymore. They're leaning against the kitchen counter on either side of the dishwasher, not looking at each other except for a glance now and then. They're not reacting at, or even to each other, not really. They're just sharing words they've repeated to themselves a hundred thousand times, but they're _sharing _them. Putting down stepping-stones for later.

It's far more than Jamie thought might happen. He thought he might ask Danny for some advance information about exercises and things he might expect in therapy, or a recommendation to a trusted therapist with no connection to the NYPD. But that can wait.

"Yeah. Me and Joe."

Now Danny looks full at him. "That was the first death that really took you out, huh."

He swallows, and nods.

"And I was in a hell of a dark place and no fuckin' help," Danny goes on, "to you or to anyone."

"You - "

He can't say it.

_You shut me down. You drowned me out. I had to bury my brother alone. You should have been the one to understand better than anyone._

It's not entirely true, but he knows how true the words feel as they swell in his head.

"Me?" Danny prompts.

"You were carrying a whole lot of your own crap," Jamie says, the words rising easily. "I know it was hell on earth over there, and a hard landing coming home."

It hits him immediately, that feeling of stepping aside, of reaching for the right thing to say to avert a bad reaction. Frustration quickly masked by the smug self-denial of feeling like _he won_ because he didn't lose control. The comfort of the controllable.

But tonight, with the scar scratched raw already, there is also the small spark of fury that he's never called by that name before, that says, quietly and coldly, _my grief isn't the less because of what you went through. Don't you fucking dare tell me it doesn't mean as much._

"I was fuckin' useless," Danny repeats, flatly. There is no heat in his voice, nor even any self-loathing. He's telling his side of the story, and he's built up enough insight to know that now is not the time to apologize or reach for a resolution. "Or that's all I felt like. I was a danger to myself and to my family, at the time, and I hit out at anyone who came too close, so they'd keep out of reach. And I sure as hell couldn't handle anyone else's reactions. You were the one who kept flying straight."

"Only on the outside. Inside, it's all..."

His voice is strained. Danny drops his eyes again, breaking contact. "This why you wanted to talk to me first? Take my temperature and see if I'm in any kind of place to walk back with you through everything?"

"Pretty much. I mean, I'm not in a seriously bad place, or anything, but - like you said, it really starts to build up after Joe."

He doesn't need to list the others who died, who came so close to dying.

_Or who left_, he thinks. Sydney hadn't signed on for all this shit. He can't blame her, not really. He was too deep in his head to be angry. He was just despondent at the time, and for a long while after.

"I get it. I think. And yeah, we got some very stinky old compost to turn over between us. And I'm in a way better place than I probably have any right to be, and I'm in with both feet, wherever you need me. Eddie, too."

It's Jamie's turn to look abashed. "Good thing she's got you for a big brother too, turns out."

Danny grins and flicks him on the shoulder with the tea towel he's been playing with, but he's struck by a thought. "I gotta warn you, though. It's gonna feel like being right back there, time to time. You know that saying, you gotta feel everything before you can feel better?"

"Still better than realizing you have an entire wine cellar of unresolved grief and trauma you're about to drag into a marriage with you - "

"No, seriously, man. You went through some serious shit of your own, and I was a total asshole to you for years. Shoulda heard what Linda had to say to me about it. You want some advice from a guy happily married nearly twenty years, it's this: listen to your wife, okay, especially about family stuff."

"Oh, you don't need to tell - "

"DAD!" It's Sean's voice, followed by a "Shush! Just wait a - " from Eddie.

Danny strides to the door and swings it open. Eddie, six inches shorter than Sean, is doing a decent impression of a basketball check to stop him from coming in. Sean has clearly had to remind himself that he can't just throw his soon-to-be Aunt over his shoulder and keep going.

"I know, but...it's chocolate peanut butter cheesecake tonight," Sean pleads, appealing to his father. "Can't I just take it out for everyone?"

"Well, you got pretty good timing," Danny reassures him, "We're good to go." He glances back at Jamie. "Right? 'Cause we can continue this over a drink after. I can get someone to drive this one home."

"Let's take a breather," Jamie says. It's been a hell of a day already. "To be continued next week?"

"Scotch night. My place, after dinner."

"Good plan."

Eddie's tucked herself under his arm by then. She wraps her arm around his waist and peers up at him, and then at Danny. "You boys need cheesecake very badly," she says.

* * *

It's late and Eddie's been reading in bed for an hour already. He'd taken a long shower to unwind and now he's sitting on the couch in a clean shirt and sweats, surfing around the NYPD POPPA website. It's all very casual. He could call the hotline right now, and talk about how he's just at the early stages of realizing all that he needs to unpack, and get some sound advice on where to go next. But it's not time yet. And he's tired, bone-tired to a depth that surprises him. He knows that emotions and memories reside in the body as well as the mind, but he feels like he's doubled his run today.

Which means that once again, as much as he wants to hang out in bed with his beautiful, loving and sexually creative fiancée, he's not going to be able to do much for her. And he doesn't want her to feel like it's all on her to put him in the mood.

Hence the couch. If he's honest, he's sort of hoping she falls asleep over her book before he gets there. It's been a week. He thought he was in the mood just fine last Sunday, but his dick had other ideas, no matter how much he wanted her. And nothing since then. It's darkly hilarious that that's probably the final straw that propelled him to take action and confront the reasons why. _How many guys have been led to therapy by their dicks? _he wonders. Many, probably.

"Jamie?" she calls. So much for waiting her out.

"Hey, yeah. Just finishing up here."

"Okay. Can you – I just need some Jamie time."

"I can do that."

He closes the laptop and gets to his feet, double checking the door and lights by habit on the way to his room.

Eddie's curled up under the covers, in a soft pink tank-top and sleep shorts she'd never admit to owning to anyone else. He's continually stunned that she lets him see her at the opposite extremes of her tough-cop and sweet-city-girl personas, and that she'll fall asleep in his arms with total trust, or keep watch over him while he thrashes through nightmares. Sometimes he thinks he gets a glimpse of what it says about the depth of her feelings for him, and that it actually might be as deep as what he feels for her.

God, he hates disappointing her.

"Hey, you," she says softly. "C'mere."

He sits on the side of the bed more heavily than he meant to, and finds the quilt as he keels comically over. "Ugh. I'm beat."

"I know what it's like," she says. "Really, I do. It all takes so much energy. Processing heavy stuff."

"I'm getting that."

She pulls the quilt up over him and scoots closer, spooning him up from behind. "I don't mind," she murmurs against his neck, "Honest. You know I don't just love you for your body. Though it's pretty stellar too."

He sighs. "Sorry."

That gets him a gentle poke in the side, "My point was, _don't be_. Give it time. I'm not going anywhere. And I mean, I have a little box full of options and a good imagination, so..."

He mumbles agreeably. He's also intrigued. He rolls over, and finds her small hand with his, sliding their fingers together. She's smiling and sleepy, and he nuzzles her nose before kissing her sweet mouth.

He knows all about her little box, of course, in either meaning of the word, but he does love hearing how much she enjoys it. And he fucking adores it when she tells him exactly which of her toys she's in the mood for and what he can do with it.

But not tonight. It's been a hell of a day and they're both on the verge of dropping off.

"Just something to dream about," she purrs, and kisses him good night.

There's more than one way to stand guard between a lover and his nightmares, it turns out.


End file.
